She could only glare her speechless rage for a moment. Then she changed swiftly and threw out her hands in a little gesture of surrender.
"After all, what difference does it make? Your Mary can beat him in a long run or a short one, but it's your horse, Pierre, and that takes the sting away. If it were any one else's I'd—well, I'd shoot either the horse or the rider. But my partner's horse is my horse, you know."
She broke into song, the clear voice flinging back from the mountainside to the cañon that dropped on their right:
"My partner's horse is my horse, bunky—
From his fetlock to the bucking-strap,
From his flying hoofs to the saddle-flap—
My partner's horse is my horse, bunky.
"My partner's gun is my gun, bunky—
From the chamber to the trigger-guard;
And the butt like a friend's hand gripping hard—
My partner's gun is my gun, bunky.
"My partner's heart is my heart, bunky—
And like matched horses galloping well,
They will beat together through heaven and hell—
My partner's heart is my heart, bunky."
He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took her hand with a strong grip.
"Jack, of all the men I've ever known, I'd rather walk with you, I'd rather talk with you, I'd rather ride with you, I'd rather fight for you. Jack, you're the best pal that ever wore spurs, and the gamest sport."
"Of all the men you ever knew," she said, "I suppose that I am."
He did not hear the low voice, for he was looking out over the cañon and whistling the refrain of her song happily. A few moments later they swung out onto the very crest of the range.